


Five times Newt visits Percival, and one time everyone does

by TheMissingMask



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alcohol, Blood and Violence, Cinnamon Roll Newt Scamander, Getting to Know Each Other, Hurt Newt Scamander, M/M, MACUSA | Magical Congress of the United States of America, Newt is a Dork, Original Percival Graves Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Original Percival Graves is a Softie, Pickett has a lot to say, Protective Theseus Scamander, Smitten Original Percival Graves, Unicorns, Workaholic Original Percival Graves, a little bit, and a dismembered cow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-18
Updated: 2018-11-09
Packaged: 2019-08-03 23:06:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16334948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMissingMask/pseuds/TheMissingMask
Summary: Percival Graves has always kept his guard up, never let people in, so he never really had anyone to visit.  This is even more true since his capture by Grindelwald, but a certain British magizoologist might just change that.There really is very little to do with the house, it's kinda just there. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯





	1. In the suitcase

**Author's Note:**

> I've never attempted a 5+1 fic before, nor a fic for this fandom, so I hope that people like this random word dump that is preventing me from doing actual work.

A frown crossed Percival’s face as he stared at the battered brown suitcase deposited in the centre of his living room floor. An entirely unassuming thing in itself, but one that could, at any moment, produce from its interminable depths a magizoologist, and potentially any number of the myriad creatures living within it. He had found something rather alarming about the notion of the case itself ever since it has been described to him by the auror Goldstein when she relayed to him her account of the events leading up to Percival's rescue, an adventure in which she had played no small part. The fact that the simple item of luggage was concealing unknown creatures of questionable legality had stopped bothering him within a few weeks of his meeting Newt. The sheer compassion and affection with which the man referred to his creatures was enough to sell even the most hard-hearted of beings on the matter. His concern, rather, lay in the fact that Newt, upon entering it, put complete trust on the outside world, or in his charms against the outside world. Anyone could pick the thing up and carry it anywhere for any unsavory end. For example, a senior auror could transport it, with all its passengers, to his elegant, old brownhouse in midtown New York.

Percival had been forced to take the case, he reasoned with himself. He really had been left with no other options. The Brit had been working with MACUSA as a consultant on a recent case of black market activities linked to at least two murders and the distribution of considerable quantities of unicorn blood. He had only joined the case - not been invited to join it, mind you - on finding out that the criminals had a unicorn in their possession, providing them with a continuous and fresh supply of blood. Effective and rigorous as always, Percival’s team had tracked the group down within a couple of days, but they had failed to entirely surprise the criminals and a vicious battle had ensued. In the midst of flying hexes, Newt had run straight into the fray to rescue the unicorn, casting defensive spells to protect it and thereby forcing Percival, as the nearest auror, to protect the magizoologist. He might not have dedicated so much effort to the action, but after all, he couldn’t help but feel a debt to the younger man for his part in saving Percival from Grindelwald. The unicorn had been so badly injured in the course of its misuse that Newt had insisted he needed to get it inside his case that instant and start its treatment. Percival promised to protect the case, and five hours later, here they were.

Percival and the case, in his house.

Never before had he passed so awkward an evening with an inanimate object.

A clicking sound cut sharp through the silence. It was immediately followed by the somewhat hesitant rise of the lid, which was in turn followed by the even more hesitant emergence of auburn, curly hair over the edge of the container. The man frowned as he looked around himself at the unfamiliar surroundings, facing away from his host at that moment because of the angle of the suitcase. After evidently deciding there was no imminent threat, the magizoologist climbed out completely. He turned, closed the case, stood, and finally seemed to notice Percival, seated opposite him with a neutral, unreadable expression.

"Mr Graves." He said, biting his lip and averting his eyes in a general right-wards and downwards direction.

"How's the unicorn?" Asked the auror, standing and walking towards him. The bright eyes flicked up towards the other man for a moment, before settling their gaze on the floor just beside Percival’s left shoe.

"Oh, he, um, he's all settled in and resting now. I healed him as much as I can for the time...” He trailed off, and it was evident he’d been exhausting his magic in the process, “I expect it will be a long recovery. He was..." The words died away as a dark shadow seemed to descend over his features. So lost in thought had he become that he gave a violent start when Graves placed a hand gently on his upper arm.

"He's in good hands now." Percival said softly, “I’m certain he will be fine under your care.”

Newt blushed and looked away, flicked his gaze back up to Percival’s dark eyes and looked immediately away again with a sort of half smile toying at his lips.

"So, this is your house..." He said pleasantly for want of anything else to break the awkward silence. Percival smirked.

"Yes, quite... Dinner? I'm afraid I only have leftovers, but they're perfectly edible."

"Oh, um, thank you." Newt smiled, risking another fleeting glance towards the other man and then back elsewhere, "That-that's fine. I-I mean, you don’t have to. I have…”

“Mr Scamander, I haven’t eaten all day and I’d wager you haven’t either. That unicorn needs you, which means you need to not be fainting.”

“Oh, um, yes, I suppose you’re right.” Again, that half-smile and tentative catching of Percival’s eyes before he looked around the place again, “Um…why are we in your house. I mean, I understand why _you_ would be in your house, but why am _I_ in your house?"

Percival didn’t turn to reply, partially so he could focus on preparing them a makeshift dinner, but more to hide his fond smile. The younger Scamander had really been growing on him the past few months, even more rapidly than the elder brother had during the war.

“You asked me to protect the case.” He replied, “Besides, now I can get your report on the unicorn and finish writing up this investigation before the next one comes along.”

“That’s very diligent of you.” Newt replied automatically, as if it was one of many rehearsed phrases of social nicety that he thought would suit the occasion, but then added more earnestly, “And kind. Thank you, Mr Graves.”

Percival couldn’t help but smile at the Brit, who met the gesture with a genuine and utterly charming grin of his own. When the director turned away this time it was to hide his deepening blush.

They shared a dinner of leftover pasta and fresh salad, during which Newt relayed the state of the unicorn to the auror. His voice trembled as he spoke of the creature’s injuries, but whether out of anger or sorrow, Percival couldn’t say. When they had both done, Newt insisted on cleaning up while Percival worked on the report, and then gave his apologies as he descended back into the case to resume care of his creatures.

“Goodnight, Mr Graves.” He said, only his head and shoulders visible above the edge of the leather box.

“Goodnight, Mr Scamander. Take care of that unicorn.”

“Of course.”

With that and the smallest hint of a genuine smile, the magizoologist disappeared into his sanctuary and Percival resumed his report. There hadn’t been the slightest sound from the case by the time Percival finally finished and went up to bed. He didn’t bother waiting for the other man. Given what he had heard of the unicorn over dinner, he knew Newt would be in there for a long time yet.

Percival passed as restful a night as he ever managed since the Grindelwald fiasco, waking only once from a nightmare just as the first tendrils of dawn were creeping through his curtains. Knowing sleep would not avail itself to him again after that, he put on a dressing gown and wandered downstairs to indulge in that excellent alternative to sleep that is strong coffee. In between his drowsiness and dreams, he had almost forgotten about the man in a case in his living room.

Meandering from the path to the kitchen, he stooped to knock on the leather lid. After a wait of a few minutes, the case opened and Newt poked his head out, paler than usual, an effect amplified by the dark circles under his eyes and the purple bruise forming on his cheekbone.

“Tea?” Percival asked, receiving a most animated nod in the affirmative.

“Please.”

He went to make the tea and coffee while Newt briefly vanished back inside the case, returning just in time for a cup to be thrust into his hands.

“I didn’t know how you took it, so just went with what Theseus claims is the right way to make tea.”

“Theseus does make rather good tea.” Newt muttered, taking a sip, “Although, I’ll dare say this is better.”

A flush drew Percival’s attention back to the bruise on his cheek, but he waited until their drinks had been finished and the cups cleared away before addressing it.

"You been fighting down there, Mr Scamander?" The auror asked in half-jest, reaching out to brush a thumb over the swollen area.

To his credit, Newt made no move either away nor towards the action, but froze, staring at Percival’s lapel. Then, he let out a soft gasp and Percival whispered a healing spell, and the bruise faded with a slight shimmer. He drew back, Newt following the motion, wide-eyed with pale lips parted.

"Wandless healing.” He muttered in astonishment, “I mean, thank you.”

Percival smiled and shrugged, “I’m not very good. Bruises and superficial cuts are about the extent of my abilities in that area.”

They fell into an awkward silence, which Pickett opted to break by madly chittering in Newt’s pocket.

“Right, right. Yes Pickett.” Newt held out his hand for the creature, “No..."

More chittering ensued and Newt's eyebrows rose in indignation.

"Pickett! Come now, I don’t think that’s…" He seemed to suddenly realise he was in human company and turned to his host, "Sorry, Mr Graves, for taking up space in your house, and thank you for the, uh, for the tea. I should really get going.”

They made their goodbyes and Scamander all but fled from the building, leaving Percival very amused and more interested in Scamander-the-younger than ever.


	2. In pursuit of a wayward niffler

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading and kudos-ing and commenting. I hope you enjoy the mischief of the niffler!

The air behind him shifted and lurched just mere inches from his person, giving away the apparation a fraction of a second before a familiar voice interrupted Percival’s thus far peaceful walk home.

"Mr Graves!"

Percival turned slowly and levelled a wholly unimpressed gaze on Newt, stood as he was in the middle of the neatly paved path leading towards Percival's front porch.  Not only was he interrupting the director's attempt to get home after an long day, but he was recklessly apparating in plain view of any no-maj who might have been in the area.  It was fortunate for both that this neighbourhood chiefly contained members of the wizarding community, but Percival presumed Newt not to know that, and therefore be just as errant as if this had been the middle of Times Square.

"Terribly sorry.” Newt said quickly, biting his lip under the unmoving scrutiny of the auror.

His freckled cheeks were flushed with exertion and his words came out breathlessly in tones that had a distracting effect on Percival's ability to maintain the severity of disposition warranted by his senior position. He maintained composure, however, and critically appraised the disarrayed copper curls and the wild, nervous eyes that flitting anxiously about himself, albeit with a mild interest in what new chaos the magizoologist was about to deliver into his already chaotic existence.

“Your watch.” Newt offered by way of explanation.

Percival remained unperturbed.

“My niffler.”

Oh.

Percival looked down at his finely tailored waistcoat to find that, yes, the silver chain that ordinarily draped delicately from the pocket to his button holes was gone, and with it, naturally, the attached watch.

He glared pointedly at the magizoologist.

"It's loose again?"

"He." Newt replied indignantly, catching Percival's eyes for a second before ducking his head, "Also, yes."

The auror let out a disappointed sigh of irritation, “I thought you had the locks fixed.”

“I did.”

"So, how does it - he - keep escaping?"

"Oh.  It's one of the really fascinating thing about nifflers, or at least, those I have had occasion to study." Newt replied, smiling to himself as he stared over Percival’s shoulder instead of at his face, "A niffler’s body is capable of squeezing to fit through even the smallest spaces that you could...bugger."

Percival bit back a comment on the man's use of that particular profanity, and followed his gaze towards the front door.  His locked and heavily warded front door.  The very same door that he had spent several days and considerable energy working on to ensure that no dark wizard could ever pass through again, no matter his determination or skill or degree of mania. Probably the most inpenetrable door in all New York. And a door through which, by means of an almost nonexistant gap at the hinges, a certain niffler was currently squeezing, his feet wiggliing as they disappeared to the other side.

The two men stared after it in silence.

"Scamander..." Percival said very slowly, grinding out the name through his teeth, "It's in my house."

"Quite so."

Grabbing Newt's arm in a sudden burst of action, Percival marched him to the front door, cast a chain of unlocking spells, and dragged the magizoologist inside. Everything was as usual. His house tidy and quiet and without obvious signs of the pilfering creature, save for the strange absence of a few of his more shiny possessions in the hall.

"How do you catch this thing?" Percival scowled at his surroundings as if to draw the niffler out by sheer force of will.

"With immense difficulty."

Percival glared harder, if such a thing could be considered possible, and Newt seemed to recoil into himself even more than usual.  Then, suddenly, like a spring released, he leapt to the right and into the living room just as the niffler bounded from the back of a chair and onto the mantle piece.  Newt jumped over the sofa, grabbed at the wily creature, missed, and sent several ornaments scattering to the floor.  The china vase broke, and the little wooden moose lost three legs.  Next the niffler was on the top of the bookshelf, so Newt jumped onto it himself, climbing up with alarming agility only to find his quarry had jumped onto his head and then back down to the floor below.  Newt tumbled off the bookshelf and books tumbled after him.  He pursued the niffler over a chair, which ended up on its back, and under a table, which was toppled on its side when Newt jumped to his feet from underneath it.  The niffler, all the time putting in his pouch every shiny thing he encountered, dodged out of the room and into the entrance hall.  Finding little of interest left there, he doubled back to complete his scavange of the living room, almost tripping Newt up as he ran under his feet and the magizoologist had to hop to prevent from stepping on him.

All the time this chaos was unfurling in his living room, Percival was upstairs, calmly opening the bureau in his study.

Newt skidded into a wall, shaking off the pictures hung upon it, shattering them on the wooden floor as the framed moving portraits cried out in terror or irritation.  The niffler paused to stare, then vanished towards a cupboard displaying a silver cuttlery set that had to date at least from the regency period.  Before he could even start on his way to it, however, something else - _something new_ \- caught his eye.  Just by the entrance to the room was a spectacular bejewelled clock with a gold face and hands, with glittering rubies to mark the hours.  All of this in a smooth and rich mahogany case with gilted gold borders, and of a size of at least three nifflers standing one on the other.  The niffler scurried towards it and began to manouvre it into his pouch with some difficulty, but it would work and he could have...suddenly the clock was no longer in his possession and he was instead in the possession of the clock's owner.

Percival cast his dark eyes over the creature, over the scene of destruction that had once been his living room, and over the man standing amidst the chaos, apparently perfectly at home within it.  Newt smiled that nervous not-actually-a-smile quirk of the lips, rubbed the back of his head and came over to collect the creature.

"That's quite enough, your pilferer." He admonished fondly, then looked up to address Percival, “Stand back please.”

The auror obeyed, and watched as the magizoologist began to shake the creature upside down, sending the stolen contents of his pouch clattering upon the ground. A great wealth of jewels and gold and silver, not all of which, Percival realised, actually belonged to him, descended onto his hardwood floor.  During the process, Newt had gone from stern and disapproving to infectiously entertained, tickling the creature to encourage its relinquishing the stolen items, and grinning brightly as he did.  The niffler seemed not to mind too much.  It pouted in whatever way something with a bill can pout when Newt was finished, and was answered in turn by the 'disapproving mother' expression that the other aurors had claimed only Newt could do and still look endearing.  And it was endearing.  Percival couldn't help but smile at the site, even if it did appear against the backdrop of his own wrecked living room.

"Now, apologise to Mr Graves." Newt said once his work was complete.  The niffler looked up at the auror with such wide, innocent eyes, that he might almost have believed him to not be the responsible party in the destruction of his property. The creature looked so pitiful and dejected, that all Percival’s stern airs, which he had been trying to cling to in the wake of Newt's actions, dissolved to nothing.

"Here." Percival said, removing his gold cufflinks, "A consolation prize. If only my aurors were half as agile as you."

Newt and niffler both stared at the man with wide, delighted, and perplexed eyes. It was the longest Percival had ever seen Newt look at someone's face, and the expression he wore while doing so was well worth the chaos required to achieve it.  He and the niffler remained in utter shock, still unmoving when Percival quitted them on the announcement that he required strong coffee.

When Percival returned, the room was back in perfect order.  Everything absolutely repaired, cleaned, and tidied into its proper place.  There were even bunches of definitely-not-from-America flowers in the vases, which Percival decided to pretend were not illegal.  Newt's attention to detail in repairing his living room was remarkable, accurate right down to the order of the pictures on his wall and the rotation of the wooden moose on the mantlepiece.  The man himself was now sat on the sofa, leant over his case with both hands resting on it and his lips close against the leather.  He was evidently murmuring to the creatures therewithin in hushed tones, a fond smile playing upon his lips.  Percival was momentarily graced with that same smiled when he entered, but it was soon lost behind the anxious, defensive hunch more typical of the man.

Percival stooped to place a cup of tea on the low table before Newt, leaning in so close in doing so that his lips ghosted over Newt’s ear and the auburn hair tickled his skin.

“The Ming vase goes on the table by the window.”

He drew back and levitated said vase from where Newt had placed it on the mantlepiece over to a table by the French windows. Newt flushed and muttered an apology, taking up the tea for want of something to do with his hands. The pair soon lapsed into more genial conversation, starting with a discussion of nifflers and possible measures to take against future breakouts.

When Newt and his case departed three hours later, Percival returned the vase to its proper place on the mantlepiece.


	3. With a sleep deprived man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, commenting and kudosing! :)

Newt returned from two months in Scandinavia looking very pale but in excellent spirits.  When Percival had passed him on the way to his office, the magizoologist had been engaged in excited discussion with the Goldsteins about selkies and wargs and nökken.

Percival had deigned to avoid any investigations involving magical creatures while their expert was away, save for those of a time-sensitive nature.  It reduced the number of creatures having to be kept in evidence, which he wasn't convinced was always that much better than the treatment they might have received on the black market.  It was a topic of constant debate among the seniority of MACUSA whether they really had cause to put effort and funds into improvements in the area, and so far Newt and Percival had managed to make the higher-ups budge only so far as to get larger containment areas purchased that could hold more than one creature at a time so families and companions didn't have to be separated.

The filtering of investigations in this way had done nothing to ease Percival's workload.  There was certainly no shortage of criminals unconnected to magical creatures and the trade thereof.  The sheer volume of the work was, although Percival would never admit it, trying on him.  It wasn't necessarily any greater than before the Grindelwald fiasco, as the aurors now carefully referred to it, but he struggled more to manage it.  His logical thought processes told him it was sleep deprivation courtesy of nightmares about what the monster might have done in his guise, the terrors enacted under his name.  The louder part of his mind told him it was weakness, and so he worked on.

At present, he was engaged with follow up reports on a double murder-by-curse case and an arson attack executed by a disgruntled ex-wife.  His desk was littered with potential leads to examine on copious possible smuggling operations, as well as incomplete reports on two instances of creature trafficking that had it had been unavoidable to investigate despite Newt's absence, and which awaited input from the consultant.

Recalling these latter, Percival sent a message down to request Newt in evidence, where there were two fwoopers and a bowtruckle awaiting his attention.  The last Percival had seen of him that evening, his eyes had adopted that serious expression reserved for encounters with ill-treated creatures, and he was following Goldstein down to the lower levels for live specimens, suitcase as ever in hand. The director felt a tinge of guilt at presenting him with this work so soon after his return.  But, he found he could only feel a little guilty given that he had been working almost non-stop for the past three days while those working for him had enjoyed regular sleep-wake cycles. Not that he entirely begrudged the lack of sleep. Not when he had ample supply of bitter, strong coffee, which he had long since decided was functionally equivalent.

He returned to his reports with just such a cup on the desk beside him, quill in hand, and inkwell still half full.

Percival jolted awake on feeling a sudden pressure on his shoulder, responding with an instinctive flurry of wandless hexes.  His assailant let out a chirruping yelp at almost the same instance as muttering a defence spell in more masculine, calmer tones.  It was a unique harmony, which Percival's sleep-addled mind gradually understood to belong to Pickett and Newt.

"Fuck Scamander!" Percival cried, "I could have killed you."

"Well, you didn't." Newt gave a nonchalant shrug, apparently entirely unperturbed by the sudden outburst of violence, although the bowtruckle still complained loudly from within Newt’s curls, “The case reports, sir.”

He nodded to the two wads of paper written in his messy hand and adorned with detailed little sketches, which had taken their place on top of all the other wads of paper and parchment on the desk. Inadvertently, Percival groaned, but it transformed automatically into a yawn.

“You need sleep.” Newt blurted, not apparently realising the inpropriety until Percival was looking at him with as unimpressed an expression as his current state would permit.

“I mean, no offence, Mr Graves, but you look terrible.” Newt said with just as little regard for their relative stations but a margin more politeness. Pickett poked his head out from where he had settled in the hair of his favourite human tree to have a look at the man in question, then chittered in agreement.

“Paperwork.” Was the sole response that Percival could muster.

“It will probably still be there in the morning. And might even be intelligible after some sleep.” Newt smiled anxiously and ducked his head when the suggestion drew a stern glare from the auror. But, looking back at the page on which he had been writing, or rather, following Newt's gaze to it, Percival found nothing more than a series of nonsensical part-phrases snaked messily across the page, trailing off towards a smudge that was probably now transferred onto the side of his face.

"Right." Percival rested his elbows on the table and rubbed his eyes, "I need coffee."

"No." Newt argued, taking the other man's arm in his free hand and hoisting him to his feet, "You need actual sleep, not sleep replacement. Now come on."

"What are you doing Scamander?" The director half-growled, half-yawned as the other man frog-marched him out the room.

"Taking you home." The iridescent eyes still refused to meet his, and that nervous smile was stretching across his lips, growing more shy as he continued talking almost to the floor, "To your home, obviously. You probably wouldn't get much sleep in mine."

He shrugged the arm holding his case in reference to his unique brand of home.

They reached the nearest apparition point to the office, where Percival turned towards the magizoolologist properly at last, "Thank you, Scamander. I can take it from here."

"Uh, no. No you can't. You'll certainly splinch if you try in this state."

Without waiting for acceptance of the plan, Newt had transported them both to Percival’s front door.

“I once tried after three days with no sleep," Newt continued as if there had been no interruption, "And managed to splinch away an arm.  Theseus hasn’t let me hear the end of it since.”

Percival was too tired to offer an intelligible response. Newt had evidently memorised the unlocking spells for his front door because he had no trouble opening it. Either that, or Pickett was involved. Percival really had no idea, or much care, because he was already falling asleep against the wall waiting for the door to open.

"Alright. In you go." Newt ushered the auror in, and suddenly Percival started to feel disturbingly like one of Newt's creatures. He was pretty sure he'd heard that tone of voice used with the occamy chicks and niffler on several occasions before. He might have said as much out loud, in fact, he probably did, because Newt was grinning broadly in amusement.

"Yes, well, it's effective. Now, sofa or bed?"

"Sofa?"

"Couch." Newt amended with no small hint of distaste.

"Oh. Bed." Percival answered because, hey, it was there for a reason.

Newt ushered him up the stairs, taking mumbled directions towards Percival's bedroom. Within the few seconds it took for Percival to cross the room and collapse onto the plush mattress, Newt had managed to remove his outer clothes and pulled back the duvet, casting from the doorway without actually entering the room. Once Percival was lain on the pillows, relishing the soft comfort of the bed, Newt drew the sheet and blanket over his body, still not venturing inside or letting go of his case. Satisfied with completion of his task, Newt turned to leave.

“Goodnight Mr Graves.”

“Percival.” The auror corrected sleepily.

“Goodnight Percival.” There was a definite smile to Newt's voice, a softening at the edges.

The footsteps had begun to fade towards the stairs, when Percival unwittingly called out to him once more.

“Stay.”

The footfalls stopped suddenly, and for a long time there was no further sound.  Then, without any suggestion of hesitation, they began again in a crescendo that stopped within the bedroom. Through half-lidded eyes, Percival saw the slender man slip to the floor, sitting there with his back against the bed. If he reached out, Percival imagined that he could coil his fingers in that unruly, vibrant hair. As Percival drifted off to sleep, he did no such thing, but he listened to the calming sounds of Newt talking quietly with Pickett, and the little creature chittering happily in response. He knew not what they said, but he knew that when he woke to a bright and still dawn the next morning, he had had, for the first time since Grindelwald, not a single nightmare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pickett's got a lot to say!
> 
> I wrote this in the wake of a series of all-nighters, during which I was trying to write up some work (real work!) and ended up writing some rather more Oscar Wilde-esc things than my experimental results. So, I figured, that when Percival is so sleep deprived, he probably ends up writing on other things and in broken fragments of sentences on matter not related to work. At the point when he's doing this, it's probably time for some sleep.


	4. Drunk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There needed to be at least one instance of drunken shenanigans, and therefore OOCness.

The two men staggered towards the elegant, old Graves family house, intermittently breaking out into incapacitating fits of laughter or stumbling into a flower bed or lawn ornament, of which Percival had a peculiarly large number.

“You can’t go back to the Goldsteins’ now. You can't apparate." Percival pointed out, "You can't even walk."

"Lies!" Newt cried indignantly, then added for good measure, "And slander."

He paused to pout as if forward progression in space and facial expressions were, at that time, mutually exclusive.

"I can very much do both.”

Percival shifted away just as they reached the enclosed front porch, propping himself against the wall, and allowing Newt to stumble from the sudden loss of support. The auror managed to awkwardly grab his companion around the waist before he actually hit the ground, and they both crashed against the door frame together.

"See?" Percival said in triumph of his proven point, helping Newt to stand back up.

"Not fair. You cheated. You have to give fair warning."

Percival laughed, "Ok."

He moved once more, and once more Newt almost fell over, this time catching himself on the door.

"That's not...where's your key?"

"In my hand." Percival said, but pointed at the lock, "I doubt we need it though."

Pickett had crawled from Newt's pocket to tackle the lock himself, chittering to himself in disapproving tones. Newt crouched beside the door, rested his head against the wood and smiled at the bowtruckle with a radiant warmth.

"I'm not drunk, Pick. Just a little tipsy is all."

Percival's wards had been adjusted a long time ago to admit Newt and the few others he genuinely trusted, so once the door clicked open and Pickett clambered back onto Newt's shoulder, the pair were able to manoeuvre themselves inside.

In the pervasive darkness within, they stumbled even more than they had before.  Newt, following after Percival, giggled everytime the other crashed into something. At last they emerged into the living room, illuminated by the brilliant moon and the streetlamp outside, and crumpled down, Percival on the sofa and Newt on the floor.

After a moment of deliberation, Newt mumbled grumpily, first to himself, and then repeating the words loud enough for the auror to hear.

"Why do you have the sofa?"

"You don't complain." Percival waved a hand dismissively, "You sleep on the ground in your case half the time. More, probs..."

"Probs? Yes, but your floor is different. I want the sofa. You have a bed."

"My bed is upstairs." Percival argued, "The couch is here."

"Move." Newt clambered up and on top of Percival, fully intent on pushing him off the sofa, but succeeding only in laying on him with their legs entangled and his head resting on the other man's chest.

"That failed." He muttered sleepily. Percival hummed in agreement, or contentment - the two sounded so much alike - and wrapped his arms around the body on top of him.  He really had no other choice.  The couch wasn't that big, and he needed to put his arms somewhere.  And as for placing a soft kiss against Newt's messy hair.  That was probably just the alcohol.  Percival certainly couldn't be blamed for that, or for the way his very being seemed to warm by the feeling of the magizoologist in his embrace.

It was definitely just the alcohol.

No.

That was a lie.

No matter the degree of intoxication, Percival knew that was a lie.  Had probably known it for far longer than he would willingly admit.

The truth that he could seemingly do nothing to avoid, that he didn't want to avoid, was that he was smitten by the British man.  Completely, and utterly, and irrevocably smitten.  And, Percival decided as he drifted into a peaceful sleep, that was ok.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short one!


	5. With significant fractions of a cow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *WARNING*  
> There is a dead cow.

The first sound that greeted Percival on entering his house was a loud, resolute thud coming from the living room. Wand drawn, he quickened his step, hastening towards the source of the noise, breath caught in anticipation of an attack.  How anyone could have got past his careful warding was a mystery that could be addressed later.  He'd be damned if any dark wizard or lackeys thereof was going to best him a second time.

He edged towards the doorway, spun round with a hex at the ready, and came face to face with a frieze that better befitted the end of a Shakesperean Roman play than his own living room.

The room, when he had left it that morning, had been as tidy as ever, save for the suitcase deposited near the windows. Now it was...decidedly not.  Red stains were scattered around the floor and, somehow, the walls.  There were buckets of various things - pellets, a liquid too thick to be water, unidentified vegetation, something definitely moving - and jars of equally unusual contents, as well as scales and pipettes and vials, and...

“A cow?!”

“Uh…” Newt looked up from the carcass and bit his lip.

“Newton Scamander!  Why is there a dead cow in my living room?”

The magizoologist rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, the other still clutching an alarmingly large cleaver.

“It’s not a whole dead cow." Was his defence, "Just the torso…and a leg or two…no skin or internal organs, and not <em>that</em> much blood, so...”

Percival pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration, taking a deep calming breath.

"Why is there a significant fraction of a dead cow in my living room?" He rephrased, eye twitching in barely maintained composure.

“It’s for the graphorns.”

Percival was really amazed at his patience.

“Yes, I presumed it wasn’t for you. Why is it in my living room?”

"The puffskeins are breeding."

This explanation was offered so simply as if it was meant to hold some significance to the auror.  It was not until Percival cleared his throat loudly that Newt seemed to realise that it did, in fact, not.

"They're very...energetic." He supplied, "And quite literally everywhere.  I didn't want to risk interrupting or injuring any, so it seemed wise to work outside of the case for a while.  Their habitat this time didn't seem quite large enough for their mating, and the hut is warm and generally..."

Percival cut Newt off by kneeling beside him, not without a long-suffering sigh, and gently taking the cleaver from his hand.

“How big a pieces?”

Was all he had to ask to have Newt grinning ear to ear.


	6. With a bit of venom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And, the +1. A little more serious than the others so far, and with some mention of period-typical views on homosexuality.
> 
> Thank you so so much for the comments and kudos. It fills my heart with a great myriad of rainbows. :)

A loud clatter somewhere downstairs tore Percival abruptly from his light sleep.  He sat for a moment with baited breath, listening intently for any further sounds amid the pervasive silence of the night.

There again!  A clatter, quieter now.

It was followed by the slow creaking of a floorboard and the shuffling sound of footsteps, slow and uneven.

Percival slipped from beneath the bed sheets, grabbing his wand from the nightstand as he stood, and crept to his door.  For a moment he contemplated changing his attire to something more intimidating than his striped pyjamas, but the risk that the home invaders might sense even the small amount of magic that it would take prevented such action.  He wasn't going to risk it.  For all he knew, whoever was downstairs could be more powerful than him, or outnumber him, or both.  He had underestimated his quarry once before.  He would take no chances this time.  This time, whoever had had the audacity to enter his home, to find their way past his wards and charms and barriers so painstakingly erected, they were not going to get the upper hand on Percival.  He would not be defeated in his own home a second time.

As silently as possible, he crept down the stairs, carefully avoiding every step he knew to creak.  His wand was a comforting weight in his right hand.  Poised to move the instant he caught sight of the assailant.

He reached the hall and found it empty.  Keeping close to the wall, he eased himself towards the living room.

The door was ajar.

Peering in, Percival saw a shadow.

Strangely shaped and moving in that same slow, shuffling manner he had heard from upstairs.

Whatever it was, it hadn't seen him yet.

He let it get a little closer.  Closer still...

" _Petrificus totalus._ "

" _Protego!_ "

His spell broke against the hastily drawn shield.  A shield hastily drawn by an unnervingly familiar voice.

"Merlin's fucking beard!" Percival waved a hand and the lamps in the room flashed alight, "Theseus?!"

"Yes, Theseus!" The Brit replied irritably, "Why are you bloody well attacking me?!"

"I...thought you were..." Percival trailed off as he registered the scene before him, "What the fuck happened?!"

It was neither the most eloquent nor productive phrase in his repertoire, but given the circumstances, Percival felt it appropriate.  Theseus and Newt Scamander, who Percival had never actually seen in the same room before, were stood together in the middle of his living room.  Theseus had one arm wrapped around his brother's waist in a barely-succeeding attempt to keep him upright.  There was a great litter of cuts, bruises, and mild burn marks on both men, and a deep wound was seeping blood through the upper right side of Newt's shirt.  The younger sibling looked deathly pale, with thin blue veins spreading like angular tendrils from around his eyes and up his neck, and his half-lidded eyes were rimmed with deep red shadows.  Short, gasping breaths escaped his pale lips.

Evidently Theseus' tip off regarding the sale of a rare creature in Rome had not culminated in entirely savory ends.

"Perhaps you could await the particulars for a time when my brother _isn't_ dying in my arms?!" Theseus glared back at Percival, looking exhausted, the sheen of sweat that covered his face glinting in the yellow illumination of the artificial lights.

"Well, I can't help if I don't know at least what did this." Percival stepped forward to take Newt into his arms, and let Theseus recover himself, "What _did_  do this?"

"Jaculus."

"Well that clears things up significantly." Percival gave his flat reply with an unseen roll of his eyes as he helped Newt out of his coat and eased him onto the couch.

"Small dragon species, very ancient.  Also very venomous, apparently."

"Apparently."

Percival pulled back Newt's shirt to examine the wound on his shoulder, made up of a series of punctures of varying widths and depths, evidently a bite from a full set of very sharp teeth.  The edges were jagged and white beneath the thick layers of blood still oozing sluggishly from it.  He levitated a cloth over from one of the cupboards and began to apply pressure to the wound.  As he did so, the magizoologist watched him with vacant eyes, which seemed to be becoming veiled by a cloudy grey creeping from the edges.

"Good evening." He breathed, smiling weakly up at the other man, "Sorry to wake you."

"Good evening, Newt." Percival replied, attempting to smile in return but quite sure it came out more a grimace, "You are more than welcome to wake me any time.  Although, perhaps you could try a different tactic in future?  Getting bitten by a dragon is an extreme way to drag me from my bed."

Newt let out a croaked laugh, "Only marginally so."

"How did it happen?" Percival twisted to look back at Theseus, "I thought Newt was good with dragons."

"Newt _is_ good with dragons.  The smugglers came back suddenly," Theseus said with no small measure of agitation, "The jaculus got spooked by their attacks and bit the closest person, who was obviously Newt, exercising his usual all-creatures-are-my-friends mentality.  We took care of the smugglers and Newt took the jaculus into his case.  When he came out..."

He gestured to Newt's prone form angrily, "Didn't tell me until then how deadly their venom is."

"I take it healing magic is out of the question."

"Might...kill...probably...would..." Newt rasped, then frowned and attempted to say something else, but resolved eventually to just wave his left hand back and forth.

"Interactions." Theseus interpreted, "The magic could interact with the venom and quicken its effects, which is something I'd really rather we avoided.  Do you really think I'd leave him with an open would if it was an option?"

"Alright." Percival tried to ignore his friend's harsh tone, "Then, an antidote."

"For the bite from an extremely rare dragon long thought extinct.  Yeah, I'm sure obtaining that will be a cakewalk." Theseus replied sarcastically.

Percival glared at him and Theseus returned the gesture with more exhaustion and concern than displeasure.  He walked around to lean on the back of the sofa, reaching down to take the cloth from Percival, examine it and the wound, and then press over it again as blood continued to ebb from within.

"To make one, we'd need a venom sample from the jaculus," Theseus brushed his fingers through Newt's hair and the other's eyes slipped shut, "Unfortunately, brother mine has forbade anyone's entrance into his case."

"I...mean...it." Newt rasped, "Jack's calm but...if you...if people..."

Speech evidently failing him once more, he made a weak 'fangs biting' motion with two fingers, and added, "Ill-advised."

"Thank you, little brother, that clears things up immensely." Theseus replied sarcastically.

"What about the antidote for venom from a related dragon, or a more general antidote?  All dragons are related, right?"

"Now that has potential."

"Where do we find - "

"Hogwarts library." Theseus interrupted, "Unlike you yanks, we still prize reading, and if there exists a general antidote to dragon venom, it'll be there."

Newt coughed and glared up at his brother.

"Or in Newt's case." He amended with a pointed eye roll, "But in the former, it might be locatable amongst the unfathomably large number of tomes, whilst in the latter it is probably being used as a component in the nest of a jobberknoll.  So we would have better luck at Hogwarts."

"Do you really think you can get there, find the recipe, and back in time?  Not to mention we then have to make it, and - "

"Neither you nor I can cook for toffee." Theseus deflated as the same realisation dawned upon him, "Then what?"

"There might be - "

Percival was silenced by a sharp little stabbing sensation in his hand that had been resting on the couch beside Newt's head.  He looked down to find Pickett there, jabbing him with one set of long protrusions while the other brandished a messy sheet of parchment.  Taking the sheet, he looked it over and handed it up to Theseus.

"From Newt's case?"

Pickett chittered in affirmation.

"From a jobberknoll's nest?"

Again the affirming high-pitched sounds.

"Of course." Theseus deadpanned, then sighed dramatically as he read over the sheet, "I swear my brother must be the only person in the world who needs a fucking antidote of moderate potency against most dragon venoms.  Moderate potency.  Seriously, Newton?   _That's_ what you're giving us?  A _'moderate'_ chance of your survival.  I swear to Morgana, Merlin, and all the bleeding rest that if this doesn't work, I am  _not_ looking after your nundu."

Percival ignored his friend's rant and grabbed the sheet back from him.

"We can probably get most of those things around here.  But the fenny snakeskin - "

Newt attempted to speak and Percival placed a placating hand on his shoulder.

" - shedded, yes Newt, don't worry, we aren't going to kill any snakes - is more difficult."

"I can get that.  Have to go back to England, but it's not too hard to find." Theseus pressed his hand to Newt's forehead, wincing at how cold it had become, "But there's still the problem of our mutual inability to make potions this complicated.  And, we can't exactly leave him alone while we go out on a scavenger hunt."

"Leave that to me." Percival said, a slow smile growing on his features, "Wait here.  I'll be back within the hour."

At that, he apparated from the room.

Left alone with his brother, Theseus knelt beside the sofa and took Newt's hand in both of his, pressed his forehead to the freezing skin, and whispered a prayer to whoever would listen. 

***

Percival had been to the Goldstein's apartment only a handful of times, and in every instance he had been accompanied by - or rather, had been accompanying - Newt.  He was aware of the restrictions their landlady placed on gentleman callers, and so cast a quick spell to dull the sounds of his footsteps as he ascended the stairs and crossed the landing to their home.  After, of course, replacing his pyjamas with something more socially appropriate.  The door was answered by Tina who, calling back at Queenie something about modest decency, took several seconds to register who it was at her door so late.

"Hi, sorry, I wasn't expecting any - Mr Graves?!  What can I - I mean, what are you?" She poked her head past him around the door frame, "Newt's not with you?"

"Unfortunately not." Percival glanced down the stairway anxiously.  Tina evidently understood his concern and stepped back to let him in.

"Queenie, you might wanna put some clothes on!" She yelled before turning back to the director, "Something's happened?"

"Newt's been bitten and he needs an antidote." Percival cut right to the chase as he handed her a copy of the recipe, "We need to obtain all the ingredients on here to make it."

She bit back any questions and read over the sheet quickly, adopting the air of complete determination that made her such an effective auror in his eyes.

"Where - "

"Theseus can get the snakeskin.  Everything else should be obtainable in New York."

"Theseus?  His brother?" She looked up in surprise, "I've never met him..."

"He's with Newt at my house.  No doubt you'll meet by the end of the night." Percival handed Tina a leather wallet, "This should cover any costs and grant requisite clearance levels in the Woolorth.  Can you get the ingredients?"

"Uh, yeah.  Sure.  How, um, how much time do we have?"

"Not enough to waste it talking."

With a quick nod, she apparated from the apartment just as Queenie emerged from another room, looking as glamorous as ever.

"Mr Graves." She smiled thinly at him, "I heard.  Is there anything we can do to help?"

By we, he had learned by now, she of course meant her and her now almost inseparable nomaj companion.  Percival had taken some time to come around to the idea of Jacob's involvement with not just any witch, but a witch who happened to be within Newt's inner circle.  The general pleasantness of the man and Newt's personal fondness for him, however, had soon persuaded the Director of Magical Security that this nomaj was no threat to said security.

"I believe so." Percival replied, looking at the couple appraisingly, "Does your skill in cooking perchance extend to potions?"

"Well, yeah, I'd say so.  Jacob's not so much, obviously, but he's good at following a recipe.  As good as anyone I've ever met.  I'd reckon to his being able to cook up anything." She smiled sweetly at him, "Aww, honey.  It's just 'cus it's true."

"The potion we need to make is complicated." Percival said shortly, cutting off any further spoken or unspoken exchange of sweet nothings between the two.

"You want us to make the potion?"

"If you'd be so kind." He replied, then added, "Such things are ordinarily of the sort Theseus and I would delegate.  We are out of practice, and this is too important a matter to leave in the hands of amateurs."

"Sure.  Anything for Newt." It was Jacob who spoke this time, "How bad is he?"

"Bad." Percival replied, "We need to go now."

No more was said, no more was asked.  Percival took their arms and apparated them both back to his home.

Newt was no longer on the couch when they arrived.  It had been a little less than an hour, by the clock in the living room, and since Percival found his furnishings still very much in tact, he had to conclude that Theseus' brother had not succumbed to the poison.

"Theseus?" He called out, and heard an unintelligible response from upstairs.

"Miss Goldstein, Mr Kowalski.  Please start preparing to make the potion." Percival gave his copy of the recipe to the nomaj, "Theseus has to go to England to collect one of the ingredients, so I'll be upstairs with Newt.  You will find everything you should need in the kitchen."

He gestured through an archway that led into the dining room and, beyond that, the kitchen.

"If you need anything, ask.  We don't have time for a moment's delay."

"Got it." Jacob took Queenie's hand in his, squeezing it in silent reassurance, no doubt accompanied by some thoughts of comfort as she smiled and kissed his cheek moments later.

As they walked away, Percival was, not for the first time, struck by just how good a couple the two made and how absurd their laws against such attachments really were.  There were a lot of laws that had started to seem ridiculous, if not downright cruel, since Percival's association with Newt had begun.  The man had a habit of making all too clear what values really mattered.  His friends were just as bad.  Percival found himself unable to follow blindly the regulations laid out for his kind as he had so diligently done in the past, and on occasions when he was forced to do so, it was now carried out with a resenting bitterness that lingered until Newt's presence somehow managed to chase the guilt away.  The notion that, if this potion did not do the job, that kind and calming influence could be lost from him forever made his insides twist.  A knot caught in his throat for a moment, but he closed his eyes and steeled his resolve.  Newt needed _him_ , not his grief.

Percival took the stairs two at a time and went straight to his bedroom.  There were guest rooms, but he knew Theseus well enough to be sure he'd have settled his little brother in the cosiest bed he could find, and that was Percival's.  No use equipping perpetually unused beds with the most comfortable mattresses and pillows.  A fire had been lit in the hearth and was burning brilliantly, casting deep shadows on Theseus' exhausted features.  He looked haggard and drawn, the minor injuries Percival had noted earlier still untreated, and a dark expression cast over his features.  He sat on the bed beside his brother, back rested against the headboard.  One hand clutched the antidote recipe, while the other brushed through Newt's fringe in a monotonous motion that no doubt comforted Theseus more than it did Newt.  Pickett was creeping about anxiously up and down one of Newt's arms.  The bowtruckle chittered excitedly as Percival entered, snapping Theseus from his melancholy daze.  He froze and looked up at his friend.

"How is he?" Percival asked quietly, stepping into the room.

"Worse."

Theseus began to stroke Newt's hair once more.

"I've sent one of my aurors after the ingredients.  She's good.  Even at this time of night, I have confidence she can get a hold of everything we need in a few hours.  Several of the ingredients are stored in MACUSA headquarters, and she has the requisite accesses."

"Tina Goldstein?" Theseus asked, then added, "Newt mentioned her.  Rather sings her praises.  I hope he's right."

"He is." Percival reassured, "Go get the snakeskin.  Tina's sister and her partner are downstairs in the kitchen.  I have just as much confidence in their ability to make the potion as in Tina's ability to get the ingredients."

Theseus just nodded mutely and leaned over to press a kiss against Newt's forehead, before climbing off the bed.  He waited for Percival to take his place beside Newt, watching with curiosity as Pickett crawled into Newt's hair and then up Percival's arm to sit on his shoulder.  Finally, withdrawing some floo powder and tossing it into the hearth, he turned back to the bed.

"Take care of my little brother, Percy."

Percival didn't bother to watch as Theseus stepped into the fire that would no doubt take him back to his office in Britain.  The man, he well knew, preferred not to travel by floo networks.  It spoke to the severity of the situation that he made the exception.  Theseus Scamander had no shortage of means to convey himself between Britain and America, but none so rapid and certain as that.

It was, by then, fast approaching midnight.  Newt's condition, Percival saw as he sat beside him, had indeed worsened over the hour or so of his absence.  The blue tendrils had crept further across his chest now and all but encased his throat.  There was no semblance of a conscious state left in him.  He neither spoke nor made any indication of response to the presence of the man on the bed beside him.  In fact, if Percival hadn't wrapped his fingers carefully around Newt's wrist to feel his pulse, he might have thought him already gone.

The wound on his shoulder had been dressed in the nomaj manner, which both he and Theseus had learned during the war, when healing with magic had not always been a viable or desirable option, depending on their circumstances.  It would scar and Newt wouldn't care.  But Percival would.  He secretly found himself bothered, unjustly he knew, by the myriad scars covering Newt's body.  There was not a single part of his person that didn't bare at least one, and usually several, remnants of a wound.  Bite marks like the one on his shoulder, scratches from claws or spines or sharp rocks into which he had been flung, burns, gunshots, puncture wounds...every possible means of being permanently marked had seemingly befallen Newt's skin.  It was a natural hazard of his profession, so Newt never gave it a second's thought.  But it disturbed Percival, even more so when he considered that several of the creatures that had inflicted those injuries upon him might in fact be residents in his suitcase.  Part of his family now.

The night crept on slowly.  Outside, the dull thrum that perpetuated New York City continued on as if nothing had happened.  As if Newt Scamander, who had technically saved the lives of several of its residents on multiple occasions, was not in his death throes with all hope dependent upon an antidote that made no promise of success.  The indistinct noise seemed to blend seamlessly into the undefinable sounds coming from the floor below.  Clatterings of pots and knives on wooden boards, of flames coming to life, and of hurried voices talking amongst themselves.  At variable intervals, he heard Tina's voice join the more continuous ones of Queenie and Jacob.

At one-thirty, Theseus stepped out of the fire with a bag in his left hand.  He took a solemn look at Newt and apparated immediately downstairs.

Newt began to shiver despite the blankets.

By three o'clock, Tina's voice became a continuous player in the orchestra of undefinable conversation downstairs, and Percival knew the ingredients were all in their possession.

The hours passed unbearably slowly after that.  With every passing minute, Percival could see the blue tendrils crawl to cover ever more of Newt's pale skin.  His breathing had become increasingly shallow and his body terrifyingly cold, nothing like the feverish response Percival might have expected.

The clock downstairs chimed for a quarter to five.  Barely a minute later, the door burst open and Theseus ran into the room with a glass in hand.  The liquid inside was pearlescent and viscous, giving off a strangely peaty aroma that reminded Percival of a nomaj whisky he had shared with Theseus at the end of the war.

"Sit him up." Theseus ordered, rushing to his brother's bedside.  Percival obeyed, shifting himself so that he was sat against the head board and Newt resting against his chest.  Theseus administered the antidote, losing only a small trickle of the liquid from the corners of Newt's mouth.

"How long will it take to work?" Tina asked from the doorway, and Percival was suddenly aware of the presence of his other guests, all stood anxiously just outside his room.

"That's a detail my brother kindly omitted from his recipe." Theseus toyed with the glass in his hands, "Thank you all for your help.  I've never known a muggle so skilled at making potions."

He smiled up at Jacob, who muttered a nervous stream of words that amounted to a thank you and your welcome in one.

"You should all go home and try to get some rest." Theseus continued, "I don't think there's anything more we can do for Newt but wait."

"With all due respect, Mr Scamander," Tina said, "We're not going anywhere until we know that Newt's ok."

The elder brother smiled softly, "No.  I don't suppose you are."

And so, for the first time in his ownership of the old Graves family home, Percival found himself host to more guests than he had beds to offer.  Not that it made any difference the number of beds, since every member of the party set up in his own bedroom without any consideration for, or expectation of, his objecting the matter.  He and Theseus sat on the bed either side of Newt.  It was just about big enough for the three of them, and the arrangement allowed Theseus to sooth himself with brushing long fingers through Newt's hair once more, and Percival to maintain hold of one wrist in order to feel the pulse that promised continued beating of that precious heart.  A couple of mattresses along with several pillows and blankets had been brought in and arranged on the floor, although it wasn't until after dawn that any of them found use.  Tina, her sister, and Jacob in turn had all succumbed to sleep as the sun rose.  Percival observed them fondly as he waved a hand to draw the drapes shut and block out the sun.  They deserved the rest after their nightlong vigil.  He and Theseus were perfectly used to sleep deprivation, and neither man could feel the tug of exhaustion for as long as Newt's fate remained uncertain.

"Merlin's beard." Theseus mused quietly at great length after the curtains were drawn, his voice barely loud enough to break the silence that had hung over them for all the protracted hours that had passed since administering the antidote.

Percival turned partially to him with a frown, "Excuse me?"

"You said it earlier, more or less.  It's a very British thing to say."

Percival shrugged, "What of it?"

They fell back into an oppressive silence.

"It's illegal, you know." Theseus said softly, "In both our countries."

"What is?"

"You and my brother.  If you pursue him.  In England, the law is there mostly because it's the muggle law, and it helps prevent wizards drawing attention to themselves in front of muggle authorities.  As long as nothing overt is done, a blind eye can be turned.  Maybe it's the same here, but I doubt that.  America tends to be harsher about such things.  More zealous."

Theseus sighed heavily and observed Pickett on Percival's shoulder.  The bowtruckle looked directly back at him with a disconcertingly stern expression that informed him in perfect clarity Pickett's opinions on the matter.

"Look, Percy, I don't disapprove.  Newt's fond of you, and that's bloody rare.  You'd be good for him, and him for you, I'd wager.  But I don't want him to end up in jail because of it.  He's been arrested enough by smugglers, authorities, and Merlin knows who else.  And each time, it takes something out of him.  Being locked up is the most unbearable state for him, to lose his freedom and the care of his creatures.  Too many more times, and I'm sure it will destroy him."

"You know I'd never do anything to endanger Newt." Percival replied, "You must know that by now."

"I confess I wasn't entirely sure of the extent of your association before tonight.  Newt isn't one for lengthy discussion on anything other than his creatures, but he has mentioned you more than the average.  I had my suspicions, but..." Theseus looked between the two men, "Tonight has been an education.  If you want to court my brother, you have my consent.  Provided you swear to be discrete in public.  The law is ridiculous, but it is there, and until that changes discretion must be maintained."

"I promise."

"Good." Theseus smiled as best he could, "Then consider my consent provided."

"Don't I have a say in this?" Newt's weak voice suddenly intercepted the hushed conversation, "I mean, I certainly don't object, but I do rather prefer to be consulted regarding such matters."

"Newt!"

Both aurors spun to kneel and began intently examining him.  He was still terribly pale and his breathing shallow, but the strange blue tendrils and grey cloudiness to his eyes had faded.  He looked between them for a moment before closing his eyes tiredly, letting out a soft laugh when Pickett scrambled onto his face and into his hair to chitter at him angrily.

"Sorry Pickett." He muttered, "I didn't mean to worry you."

"But you meant to worry the rest of us?" Tina demanded, evidently roused by Theseus' and Percival's loud exclamations.

"Uh, s-sorry.  I didn't mean to worry any of you." Newt forced himself to open his eyes again and smiled at his friends, now all gathered at the end of the bed, "But, I guess the antidote worked?  That's interesting.  I wasn't sure if..."

"Stop right there." Theseus glared, "Say another word, and I swear to Morgana I'm going to steal your favourite coat."

"Stopping right there." Newt responded, "But it does shed some information on the phylogeny of the jaculus, and its possible relations with more common dragons of the present..."

The pale skin was becoming increasingly free from the blue tendrils and Newt's voice was growing stronger by the second.  A collective sense of elation spread through the company as Newt continued to mutter, mostly to himself, about the implications of the success of that particular antidote.

"Before you wear yourself out too bad with all that dragon talk," Jacob interrupted, "How bouts I make us all some breakfast?  I'm telling you, there's nothing better to celebrate than good ol' New York style cinnamon roll."

"Oh!  Yes, and we can...just what I was thinking." Queenie exclaimed, "C'mon, Teen.  You can help."

The blonde grabbed her sister's hand and turned to the door, but Tina resisted and moved to take Newt's hand quickly.

"As soon as you recover, you are in so much trouble, Mr Scamander." She said, hot words softened with her affection.  Newt squeezed her hand in his and smiled while his eyes stayed affixed at the far corner of the bed.

"That's not really incentive."

"Shut up."

With that, she released him and followed her sister from the room.  A few minutes later, the now familiar sounds of Percival's kitchen in use drifted up from the floor below.

Left alone with his brother and Percival, Newt finally undertook the struggle to sit more upright and join them in leaning back against the headboard.  As the scent of fresh pastry began to accompany the sounds from below, Percival spoke.  His house was no longer empty.  The chances of much privacy were greatly reduced, and would remain so until Newt was well enough to be moving about again.  If not now, then he might have to wait days to say what needed to be said.  After that night, he was unwilling to wait a moment longer.

"Newt." He said, "I must ask you...Theseus, feel free to leave any time..."

"Sod off." Theseus replied, "I gave my consent, so just ask.  I'm not going anywhere."

"Fine." Percival turned back to Newt, who was struggling to hide his smile, "Newt Scamander, would you raise any objection if I was to court you?"

"Percival Graves, I'm rather certain you already were."


End file.
